


Fruition

by TheScholarlyStrumpet (equipoise)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equipoise/pseuds/TheScholarlyStrumpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes he thinks he can’t remember a time when he didn't want her."</p><p>"Words have always come so easily to him when used as weapons. Now, they stick heavily in his throat, clogged with fear and disbelief. He needs her to know that this is so much more than a ‘dalliance’ to him."</p><p> "He wants to know the sounds of her ecstasy. He longs to hear her to scream for him."</p><p>(Basically, I wanted to write Rumbelle porn.) No curse mentioned; Gold and Belle only have Storybrooke memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fruition

**Author's Note:**

> I've been practicing my smut and it was time to try for my OTP. This is just a one-shot, but reviews would be lovely. Constructive criticism is also appreciated. And if you don't have anything nice to say... maybe try to say it in a nice way? 
> 
> Don't have a beta, so I hope there aren't too many errors. 
> 
> P.S. I chose the name Angus because it's Scottish and apparently means "one choice" or "one strength" (depending on the source). I liked the inference.

He feels his gaze wander to her, unbidden. Her shoulders are hunched over the desk as she scribbles notes in the ledgers of the book. He had not expected her to be so adept at accounting when he had first suggested she help with the paperwork. He had just been trying to give her a break from the menial tasks of washing and cleaning around the office and the store. She is nibbling on her bottom lip, brow furrowing in concentration and he worries his own lip in an unconscious mimicry. Coming to his senses, Mr. Gold quickly averts his eyes, screwing them tightly closed, though he knows it is no good. Her image will only remain on the inside of his eyelids, burning brightly in the harsh glow of his desire.

Belle makes a small humming sound, low in her throat and Mr. Gold re-opens his eyes to meet her vividly blue ones. 

“In July, there are some numbers that don’t make sense” She points with the eraser of the pencil, pulling her lip back in with her teeth and then soothing the bitten spot with the tip of her tongue. 

Mr. Gold watches, helpless with longing, as her tongue darts out and back in, swiping slowly at her bottom lip. “How so?”

Belle looks at him expectantly and he realizes she is waiting for him to have a look at the problem, himself. He mentally scans his body for any outward indication of his hot-blooded state. Finding himself mostly in check, he rises quickly and steps around to her side of the desk, meticulous avoiding brushing her shoulder, as he leans forward to frown at the ledger. 

“See?” Belle points again. “The number of collections is too low to have evened out. But then here, the difference was made up without another collection added.” Her eyes catch his again and his breath hitches slightly. He leans in to refocus on the numbers, trying desperately not to notice that Belle’s hair smells deliciously like fresh peaches. 

He saw the error immediately and cursed his foolishness. The last thing he wanted to be in front of Belle was less than perfectly competent. “I… may have recorded incorrectly.” He admitted gruffly. “That should be $1,800 not $1,600. My apologies, Belle.” 

“At least it’s easily fixable. You really did make a mess of these books, Mr. Gold. What would you do without me?” Her tone is indiscernible, but the corners of her mouth quirk and she winks up at him before returning her attention to the books. 

“Clearly, I’d be lost in a sea of terrifying numbers.” He keeps his own voice light and neutral but it is enough to surprise a small laugh from Belle. Warmth floods through him at the sound. He loves to make her laugh. And he should not be thinking that. He should also not be noticing the neckline of her blouse as it just barely flutters over the tops of her breasts. He straightens himself and determinedly returns to his seat on the other side of the desk. 

Belle leans forward and he turns his gaze from the tantalizing view. They still have most of the summer's expenses to go over. It is going to be a long night.

Sometimes he thinks he can’t remember a time when he didn't want her. Surely he hasn’t been carrying this torch since the day they met? She had looked so very lost, knocking on the door of his shop. His heart warms at the memory. She was a desperate soul, but not without her pride. Her father’s debt would be impossible to settle on her own, but working at the shop had been her suggestion. To lighten the load for poor Moe French, she had said. His lip curls at the memory. For reasons he has never been quite able to discern, Mr. Gold has never liked Moe French. 

However, Belle, Moe’s pretty little daughter has always been something of a breath of fresh air. She doesn't shun him on the streets. She meets his growls and taunts with an amused smirk. That day at his doorstep, so many months ago, he had not been able to turn her away. Frankly, he had been too surprised to think a woman like Belle would willingly spend time with him to turn her down. Now, here they are. 

He hazards another furtive glance in her direction, but she is lost in his accounting books, still nibbling away at her bottom lip, one hand absentmindedly twirling a loose curl of hair. He longs to nibble on that lip for her, to bury his hands in her curls and pull them completely free of their messy ponytail. 

Shuddering under the weight of his yearning, he forces himself to look away. 

He tries desperately to focus on sorting the receipts, his hands don’t even tremble to give him away, but his mind continues to wander, down that inevitable path that winds and bends through all his uncertainties, bereft of reason. For all that he played his part in this little town, wheeling and dealing as needed, could he not keep one thing just for himself? He would trade all the deals he could do in a lifetime to have her, warm and willing in his bed. He tries to shake the pointless thought from his head.

“Mr. Gold” She looks up, concerned at his sudden movement.

He flushes; he had not realized he was moving his head, physically shaking to try and clear the mental image of her panting and wide-eyed, flushed with his kisses and slick to the touch. “I… was just waking myself up. I didn’t get much sleep last night. Sorry to have disturbed you.” He offers a small quirk of the mouth that he hopes she will recognize as a smile. She readily returns it, the set of her shoulders softening and her head inclining. 

“Would you like me to make some coffee? Or tea, maybe?” He hesitates and she nods firmly. “Mm, too late for coffee. Tea it is.” Before he can answer she has already risen from her seat and started to the back room.

“Oh don’t bother…..” He starts to call after her, already knowing it will make no difference. When Belle decides to do something, she simply does it. He loves that about her, her gentle determination, steadfast and perhaps only a little stubborn. 

He envies her conviction at times. His own sense of drive seems to be evading him, of late. There is always more work to be done, more people in Storybrooke in need of his services. Yet lately, he feels he has lost a taste for it. The simple success of finely worded contract used to give him a thrill. Now, his clever words turn to ash in his mouth. He owns practically the entire town and can seem to take no joy from all his success. It is little wonder that he struggles to ignore the distraction of Belle’s guileless allure. She presents a challenge to him, but it is not one he feels he deserves to take on. He is stuck in place, treading water and shaking off every wave of hope that dares to wash over him. Girls like Belle do not fall for their monstrous employers. He would do well to remember that. 

Without a second thought or a clear motive, he finds himself grabbing his cane to follow her back.

She is not looking at him as she puts boils water in the electric kettle, humming a little – a familiar tune he can’t quite remember. Mr. Gold ravenously takes in her slender figure, her narrow shoulders, and the mass of bunched curls tied sloppily out of her face. He will allow himself this personal torment, this idle indiscretion. It is all that he has earned from her. 

“Are we out of sugar again?” Belle’s voice tears him from his silent worship. She does not seem the least bit surprised to find him lingering in the doorway, having followed her like a lost puppy.

“I don’t need it. I’m sweet enough.” He drawls casually, pulling further into the room, feeling a bit like the proverbial moth flitting toward her inexorable glow.

She snorts indelicately and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, that makes one of us. I, on the other hand, could always use a little added sweetness.” She winks cheekily at him and his stomach clenches. Belle has never been afraid of him like the others. No matter how roughly he has spoken to her in fits of pique, she always maintains an air of humoring him. It irritates him how much he enjoys that about her. 

He mumbles something nonsensical, picking up the scent of peaches as he nears her. 

She leans in closer, “What was that?”

He could close the distance between them. He could capture her lips in just a quick motion, pull her body to his and allow himself a reprieve from this delicate agony. Instead, he licks his lips and nods “I’ll get some more tomorrow.”

Her smile makes his knees go weak.

They sit across the small table from one another, each with a steaming mug in hand. There is something charmingly domestic about it, he thinks idly. The image of Belle as June Cleaver pops into his head and he tries to stifle a chuckle behind his hand.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just a funny thought.”

“I’m glad your tea is so amusing…”she smirks over her mug. “Care to share the joke?”

He kicks himself for admitting to the private musing “I was just… uh… I was thinking that you’ll make someone a very happy husband, someday.” His smile falters as she fails to look amused.

“And that’s…. funny?” She is not offended, but he is troubled by the way she pulls her lip back in between her teeth – a sure sign that she is thinking this over. Over-thinking it, most likely. 

“Belle, it was just a funny mental image. You as the 1950’s housewife type. I didn't mean to imply… or denigrate…. Or…” he sighs, searching his mind for any other negative emotions his little joke may have evoked.

She giggles then and the tension is broken, “Ok, well that’s all you had to say. I may cook and clean around here but I staunchly refuse to wear a frilly apron or greet you at the door with a martini.”

He laughs a little uneasily, since the very thought of her greeting him as his very own, to have and hold, makes his breath catch. “I’d never expect such a thing” He admits finally. It is truth, far more than she can know. If he had Belle as his own, he would be happy to cook and clean and fix his own damn martinis. If she were to share his life (and his bed), he would wait on her hand and foot and even wear that damn apron, if she so much as hinted it would please her. Reluctantly, he tears himself away from that misty fantasy and his heart twinges painfully at the loss. 

He had been married once, in his youth. A dark-haired beauty who spent more time in other men’s beds than in her husband’s arms. Once his ex-wife had left town for good, he had shut himself off and vowed never to be taken in by a pretty face or a pair of long legs. Belle’s possession of both had been a taunt at first. However, her sweet nature had grown on him, until he grudgingly admitted that he rather enjoyed her company. Her temper was quick and hot, like his own, and when he spoke harshly to her, she would take none of it. More than once, she had walked out of the shop door with no promise of return. But return she did. Every single time. Sometimes with hamburgers. He had lived long enough to recognize a peace offering when he saw it. It’s a wonder he hasn't put on a few pounds for all the arguing they do. 

Once they have finished their tea, Belle deposits the mugs in the sink and crosses to face the small decorative mirror over his desk. She begins re-arranging her hair. 

“You look just fine, dear.” Mr. Gold allows himself the small endearment. It’s no more or less affectionate than addressing anyone else in town. She doesn't know that the intent is entirely different, because intent is meaningless, after all. 

Belle grins over her shoulder at him. “Thank you. I just wanted to freshen up a bit; I may be going out tonight when we've reached a good stopping point.”

“Out?” Mr. Gold echoes helplessly, already feeling the loss of her.

“Mm-hm. Gary texted that he was thinking of a late dinner.”

And just like that, he’s forced to remember that Belle does still have another man in her life. That wretched, vapid Gary. 

He wishes Gary would meet with an untimely and unfortunate accident – something that could not be traced back to him, of course. He wishes Belle would recognize what a remarkably poor choice she has made, or rather her father has made for her. Moe French and Victor Gaston, Gary’s father, had been best friends for years. Growing up, Belle and Gary Gaston had played together. They had gone to prom together. There was not a soul in town who was surprised when Gary announced that he and Belle were talking about marriage. Mr. Gold grits his teeth to keep from snarling obscenities at the thought.

There is no ring on her finger, yet, though. Gold had made sure that everything was above Gary’s price range the day he came into the shop to inquire. 

“Oh. Well I suppose that’s much more important than your work here.” He tries in vain to bite back the bitterness. 

Belle looks taken aback. “I never said that.”

Mr. Gold feels his temper rising and, he cannot push it back. He leans heavily on his cane (but tries not to show it) as he stands and strides toward her. “Well, it wouldn't be the first time you've skipped out for a little fun with your boyfriend.” He spits the last word out with a level of contempt he no longer knew he possessed. 

“What, now I’m not allowed to go out? You know how dedicated I have been, here. I put in almost full time hours!” 

“I never asked you to work here.” His voice is low and he can’t meet her eyes as his gut twists. She’s right – she has stayed many late nights, despite having no tangible reason to be there.

“If you’re going to continue being such a beast about it, I may as well not!” She glares. “You haven’t exactly been all sunshine and roses, you know.”

“Then why are you here?” He demands brusquely, cursing himself for the abrasiveness bred by his anger and fear at the thought of ever losing her.

She takes a step closer, well within his personal space, and meets his eyes squarely, her cheeks turning a striking shade of pink. “Why do you think?”

There is something deep and feral in her appraisal of him. It is not anger, no, he knows that flashing glare all too well by now. His tongue peeks out to wet his lips and her eyes flick to it, following its path hungrily. It hits him all at once and his anger drains away immediately. Can it really be so? 

“Belle” His rough whisper cracks on the second syllable. She is so torturously – gloriously! – close, he can inhale the scent of her shampoo again and he tastes peaches. Beneath that fruity layer, her raw scent is a little muskier and distinctly female – the heady combination makes his mouth water. “Belle… please…” 

She says nothing, studying him intently as they sway toward one another. His fingers are itching for contact. He wants to caress, he wants to rip that flimsy blouse from her body, he wants to grasp and hold and squeeze and never release her again. “Please don’t let me…” he fights to still his treacherous hands but her consent is made quite clear as she leans into him.

Belle meets his eyes unwaveringly, her lips slightly parted. Unable to stop himself, he reaches out and makes a light path down one arm, falling to her hips and up the curve of her waist, seeking out all of the warmth he has denied himself for so long. He hears her breath hitch as he maps her skin with something akin to desperation. Emboldened by the sound, he flicks his thumb gently over her ribcage, under her breast, before tracing a collarbone with his fingertip.

There was a hint of surprise in her eyes at his initial touch, but mostly there is something else, something almost primal. He shivers involuntarily under the weight of her gaze. He wills himself to look away. He cannot take this exquisite torment a moment longer. “Belle, please tell me to stop this.” He is begging, pleading with his voice, even as his body betrays the words, pulling her still closer, until she has to tilt her head to keep meeting his eyes. This must be a fever dream. Any moment, she will pull away and slap his face for taking such liberties. She is practically engaged to another man; she could never be his. Yet, she leans into his caresses so willingly, so beautifully. 

He presses his forehead lightly to hers, closing his eyes and exhaling shakily. “Please, tell me to stop. Tell me that I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t want….” His voice trails off as he feels her hands travel up his lower back, beneath his jacket, running her nails gently over the cotton of his shirt. With a shameless whimper, he closes the remaining distance between them, crushing her body to his and dropping his cane haphazardly. 

Her arms wrap around him possessively and he buries his head in her shoulder, his lips finding purchase through the layers of her hair. It is a chaste kiss, as far as kisses go, but she arches against him as though it is utter carnality. He flutters light kisses up the length of her neck and to her chin and hears her release a soft sound of pleasure. With a hard swallow, he reaches her mouth, pausing just millimeters from her lips and murmurs a final plea “Belle, stop me.”

Her own voice comes out in a quiet sob “I… can’t.” 

He breathes in her breath as she seems to struggle for words.

“Mr. Gold… I want you.”

And with that, he is lost.

He feels like he could melt from the heat of her kisses, the press of her body into his. It’s too much and not enough all at once. He wants to hold onto this moment and never live in another for all of existence. Their mouths move ardently together, drawing apart only for a quick breath before plunging back into the intoxicating dance. Their tongues and hands explore in tandem, tasting one another thoroughly, while seeking every curve and plane, sighing and moaning as each new sensitive spot is discovered.

He feels her fingers fall to the buttons of his shirt and she curses lightly against his lips as she fumbles with them. He growls in both appreciation of her efforts and his own remembered thought of ripping her blouse from her body. He pulls at the hem and deftly yanks it up. She protests at the brief loss of contact but raises her arms for him to remove the garment. 

She manages to unbutton his shirt completely and the sensation of her curves, only separated from his skin by a satin bra, sends him reeling. He stoops to trail his mouth down her collarbone, suckling and nipping at the newly exposed flesh. He wants cover her in kisses. He wants to savor the unique flavor of every inch of her skin. 

His hands fiddle with the clasp of her bra. He tries to remember how these bloody things work. It’s been…. a very long time. As though she read his mind, she reaches back and unhooks it with a twist of her fingers, a slight smirk lighting her face, as their eyes meet for the first time since they began this. 

His mouth goes dry, as the barrier of satin drops to the floor. “Belle…. Oh, my Belle…. You are so…. completely… stunning… gorgeous….amazing” He punctuates each word with a soft press of his lips to the tops of her breasts, cupping them gently in his hands, treasuring the perk of her nipples in his palms. He trembles with the force of his need and moves in to capture her lips once more; sliding his hands around her waist. The feeling is pure heaven, as she presses back into him. 

“Mr. Gold…” Her voice is huskier than he has ever heard it and he thrills in the novelty of it. 

“Yes?”

She licks her kiss-swollen lips and holds his gaze, suddenly somber. “I don’t want to rush anything… if you’re not…Just because I…” She swallows, her eyes wide and searching. “I want you to know that I… I've wanted you for so long, but I didn't think that you…” She screws her eyes shut and exhales softly. “I’m not in love with Gary, but I’m not the kind of girl who… does things like this. I like you, Mr. Gold. Very much. Too much, perhaps. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. If this is just a dalliance…” She meets his eyes again, squarely. “Unless you truly want me, we should stop this right now.”

“Could you doubt for a moment, my darling Belle?” He flounders. Words have always come so easily to him when used as weapons. Now, they stick heavily in his throat, clogged with fear and disbelief. He needs her to know that this is so much more than a ‘dalliance’ to him. 

“I don’t want to doubt you. There is so little in this world I can call my own, Mr. Gold. Why would a man like you have need of me? I’m your employee, little better than an indentured servant, for my father’s debts. I mean, I don’t even know your first name.”

“Angus. My name is Angus. I don’t use it unless I have to. But I will tell you anything you want to know, Belle. I will give you any part of me that you wish to have. My heart? My soul? Tarnished and withered, both, but they are yours if you’ll have them…” He is shaking now. She is flush against him and he will have her. If he can have nothing else good in this world or the next, he will have this sheer perfection- her lips and her skin and her scent. He cannot imagine ever living without them. He boldly reaches for the zipper of her skirt, but awaits her consent. “If the only thing in this world you were to call your own was me, I’d be the luckiest man who ever lived.” He breathes, willing her to hear the complete conviction in his words. 

Her hand covers his larger one and guides the zipper down. The skirt pools at her feet and she smiles up at him. “So, I am yours.” 

His lips crash down onto hers and he wants to put every ounce of his adoration into that kiss. It is a joy like no other and he feels ready to burst with it as he worships the contours of her body. She pushes his open shirt and jacket off of his shoulders. She mirrors his movements with fervent interest. Her lips fall to his chest and he lets his head fall back with a moan. She kisses and licks and nibbles all the skin her mouth can reach. When he can take no more of this delightful torment, he pulls her back up for a searing kiss.

Her hands fall to his fly, deliberately brushing the tented fabric, and he keens with the contact and the anticipation. He leans on his desk with one hand as they rid him of his remaining clothing. She hops onto the desk and draws him between her spread legs, only her damp knickers separating him from the place he yearns most to be. 

He swallows hard; he had not realized how nervous he would be. It has been a few decades after all, and this is the only woman he has ever truly wanted – no NEEDED. He wants to know the sounds of her ecstasy. He longs to hear her to scream for him.

“Lean back, sweetheart.” He murmurs gently. 

She obeys, moving a few scattered objects out of the way. Upon his urging, she scoots back until she is fully prone, her feet resting on the edge of the desktop, knees falling slightly apart. He rolls her knickers down her long, shapely legs, trailing kisses in the wake of his hands. Using the desk for leverage again, he lowers himself to his knees. His bad leg will give him hell tomorrow, but there is a not a force strong enough to keep him from tasting her, now. 

Reverently, he teases at her folds, drawing soft sounds of delight from her. She is delicious, glistening with her arousal and it is all he can do not to lose control. He strokes himself slowly to relieve some of the tension as he buries his face in her slick quim. He is rewarded when her whimpers turn to heavy moans, her hips writhing against the desk. He steadies her with one hand on her belly, bringing the other to her entrance. He delves into her with one finger and then two as his tongue continuously circles that fleshy nub at the apex. Pumping steadily faster, he feels her clenching around him. She shakes and tightens impossibly around his fingers, crying out her ecstasy. 

He nearly spends himself in that moment; so utterly enthralled with her quivering rhapsody. He greedily returns his mouth to her. She stops him, pulling herself to a sitting position. “Angus… I want to feel you.” 

He hesitates. “I haven’t got any protection, love.”

She shrugs. “I’m clean and on the pill.”

“You trust me that much?”

“You’d tell me if I couldn't.” She helps him back to his feet. 

“Aye. I would at that.” He agrees. 

She reaches down to grasp him and he growls his approval. His leg is screaming and he doesn't give a whit. Their mouths and bodies meld together in a tangle of limbs and tongues and sweat and skin. She has moved to the edge of the desk, bringing her hips level with his. She leans back, balancing on one hand and holding onto his shoulder with the other. Keeping most of his weight to his good leg, with a little maneuvering he is fully sheathed in her. She undulates into him and he bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from coming apart. It is fire within and slow burning rapture as he pulls out to slide back home.

Gripping the desk with one hand, he brings the other to her clit and fervently seeks out her pleasure, praying to any power that will listen that he can last long enough to bring her off again. His prayers are answered just as he reaches the point of no return. She screams his name so loudly, he thinks the walls are reverberating with it. His thrusting loses its rhythm completely as her muscles clamp down, milking him for all he is worth. He is lost in her and they are as one. 

He stumbles a little as his knees threaten to give out, but manages to catch himself with his hands. Her arms enfold him gently and he rests his head in the crook of her neck. 

Suddenly, Belle giggles. 

Apprehensively, he pulls back to look at her. “Is something amusing you, dear?”

“Oh, I was just thinking I should probably text Gary and tell him dinner is off.” She flashes a mischievous smile. 

He feels his own mouth curve up to echo hers. “He can wait.”


End file.
